


Selection

by yeaka



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ficlet, M/M, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-26
Updated: 2018-02-26
Packaged: 2019-03-24 05:54:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13804830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Noctis grows hungry, then surveys his options.





	Selection

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Um somehow I’m still going with this
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Final Fantasy XV or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

His phone must’ve fallen out of his pocket, because after their dinner by the fire, Noctis has to wander back to the Regalia. He pats along the backseat, searching by mere starlight, and soon enough, catches the glint of his screen. By the time it’s safely in his hands, his stomach is growling again, even though he _just_ ate—Ignis cooked him a brilliant meal, freshly sliced and seasoned like they still had use of the palace’s grand kitchens. Noctis runs his tongue along the inside of his mouth, feels two teeth sharpening, and knows he suffers a very different hunger. The red meat they catch out of monsters is all well and good, but Noctis’ diet still needs supplementing with _proper_ nutrients.

He wanders back towards their camp, over to the little raised hill where the fire’s stoked and cracking. Sometimes in storybooks, creatures like Noctis are cold and dead, but he can feel its warmth well enough. He can practically _sense_ the warmth of the others. He lingers just at the bottom of the slope, still swallowed up in shadows, and peers at all his choices. He has his pick of the litter. And what a wondrous pack they are.

His gaze lingers over each of them in turn, fangs growing and mouth starting to salivate as he traces Ignis’ slender silhouette, Prompto’s pliant form, and Gladiolus’ tantalizing bulk. He can smell them, too. It’s been too long since they washed at a hotel. But Noctis likes them all the better for it—he likes them _raw_ , likes to taste the faint tang of mud and sweat on their skin. Ignis has a steaming cup of Ebony in hand. Maybe he’ll taste bitterer tonight.

Gladiolus and Prompto are buried in their phones, clearly busy in a game of King’s Knight. Noctis had meant to join them, but now, seeing them awash in the orange glow of the fire, he’s too thirsty to think about virtual games. He doesn’t have the hired maids the castle used to, or the donated packets sent to his apartment, but he has something better—live, _willing_ sacrifices, all displayed so handsomely before him.

Noctis slowly ascends the hill. When he’s close enough, Ignis murmurs, “Noct,” by way of greeting. Prompto looks up to give him a cute smile, but Gladiolus just grunts, still ensconced in his impending defeat. Prompto owns him on the virtual battlefield, though it’s the exact opposite in real life. And Noctis, in moments like this, with the _power_ pulsing through his veins, is all too aware that all he has to do is snap his fingers, and he’ll own them _all_.

He announces, voice raspier than he means it, “I’m hungry.”

They all pause. Of course they do; they’re all there for _him_. Most of the time, Noctis tries not to think of it like that. This is different. Ignis glances curiously, amicably up at him. Prompto tenses for a split-second, visibly breathing harder and already flushed below his freckles. Gladio shoots Noctis a burning look, intense and full of anticipation. Ignis is the closest, so Noctis strolls there first.

He pauses over Ignis’ shoulder, looking down until Ignis averts his eyes from Noctis’ reddened gaze. Ignis’ suit is tailored and well fitted, sucked against his taut body, highlighting all his lithe curves and tight muscles. His legs are crossed, but his thighs would open the minute Noctis asked, he knows. Ignis would crawl to him, kneel before him, pop open a few buttons on that crisp collar and _present_ to him, body fully surrendered. Noctis had Ignis first. He remembers the first time he ever sunk his fangs into his advisor’s throat, how _good_ it felt, how _delicious_ Ignis was. The maids hired to be his blood banks never could compare. And Ignis would arch into him, eager to please and serve, in a way they never did. Maybe that’s why Ignis always dresses so proper now. He must know how wild it drives Noctis to see too much of his sweet skin exposed.

But Ignis isn’t his only option anymore. Noctis casually saunters along the circle, reaching Prompto. His hand automatically falls to Prompto’s shoulder, fingertips drawing along the rounded biceps as Noctis steps around him. Prompto shivers under the touch. Prompto melts _so easily_. He’s so responsive, so _sensitive_ , and he’ll often squirm and moan when Noctis sinks into him, sometimes even plead for _more_ , bucking into Noctis’ body with none of Ignis’ grace. The first time Noctis brought Prompto’s wrist to his lips, Prompto balked. But now Noctis can have any part of Prompto that he wants, and Prompto will only bite his plush lips and lean into Noctis’ hold. Noctis tries never to take too much from Prompto. He’s pure dessert: rich and creamy, but he shakes and pants enough without being left dizzy from blood loss. When Noctis’ hand falls away from Prompto’s shoulders, Prompto actually _whimpers_.

There’s still Gladiolus. By the time Noctis reaches him, he’s sitting up straight, knuckles tight around the armrests of his foldout chair, phone forgotten in his lap. There’s a sizeable bulge underneath it, not necessary from hardness, but because Gladiolus is almost _always_ visible—that’s just how big he is. His whole body is _big_. He’s nothing but exquisite, rippling muscles, that Noctis loves to run his hands over when he’s feeding. He can take as much as he wants from Gladiolus. He can take _more_. He can push Gladiolus so far, and Gladiolus will just grit his teeth and bear it, goading Noctis on. He’ll hiss in lewd delight at the sting of Noctis’ fangs, growl with _want_ when Noctis bites too hard. He looks up at Noctis now, heated and fierce, daring Noctis to choose him. He wants it just as bad as the rest of them.

They all want him. But Noctis tries to take only one a night, on the nights he feeds at all. The rest of them will need their strength in the morning. 

As he steps back, it occurs to him again how very _lucky_ he is. He knows that in some ways, he’s no better than a daemon. An abomination. The curse of the crown is something the papers would run wild with if they ever knew the truth. But all his men are loyal, and all of them would jump at the chance to satisfy him. He spares them each a final look.

Then Noctis ducks back into his tent, calling out the name of his latest donour. He doesn’t have to look back to know his choice will grin and follow.


End file.
